


Knock-Off Raisin Bran

by thejessbeast



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-19 00:33:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejessbeast/pseuds/thejessbeast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek leans against the counter. One of the better benefits of Sheriff Stilinski’s altruistic sense to care for abandoned young men was the fact that Derek had access to Stiles’s room whenever he wanted. Well, access that didn’t require him to commit breaking and entering.</p><p>	Though there had been plenty of that already.</p><p>	Pace uneven on the stairs, Stiles arrives at the kitchen trying to act nonchalant instead of totally debauched. Derek sees it though. He sees the slow steps as soreness and not sleep. He sees Stiles’s hand rubbing at his neck as the tracing of the bite marks left just beneath the collar and not a morning stretch. He sees the quick inhale of breath as immediate arousal and not the yawn that Stiles turns it into.</p><p>	Maybe to a human, Stiles can pass.</p><p>	A blind human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knock-Off Raisin Bran

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by [this](http://stupidteenwolffeelsruiningmylife.tumblr.com/post/35968929819/sourwolf-roseandthebeast-i-kind-of-need) gif and the subsequent tags. I felt myself compelled to write some Teen Wolf fanfiction.
> 
> One shot, mostly fluff, with heavily "implied" porny bits.
> 
> Plans are in the works to write the scene before this.

The sun is playing its way across the kitchen tiles as Derek waits for Stiles to get up. Sheriff Stilinski is sitting at the table, reading the paper and sipping his coffee. It’s an old chipped mug that says “World’s Greatest Mom” on it.

Despite the three months of “mentoring,” Derek’s never going to _not_ think of him as Sheriff Stilinski. Even if they are going to go go-carting this afternoon.

It’s Stiles’s idea of course. Derek’s got a real car – what would possible thrill could a go-cart hold at that point.

Derek clears his throat softly, and the Sheriff looks up. Derek’s hand hovers over the only cereal in the house – some knock-off brand of Raisin Bran – waiting. Sheriff Stilinski sits with his spine straight, holding a steady gaze. Derek waits for the nod, the lowering of eyes, the consent. 

It does not come. It never comes. The Sheriff stands and goes for more coffee. Derek lets his hand fall to the box. The hairs stand up on Derek’s arm; guess they’re at the part of this where Derek doesn’t need permission anymore.

Sheriff Stilinski puts three spoons of sugar and half  & half into his coffee.

He can only get away with it because Stiles is asleep.

Or was. Derek’s head snaps up; the thump from the ceiling makes it clear that Stiles fell out of bed, rather than got out of it.

To be fair, Derek had left the sheets as tangled as he could. The corners of his mouth fight the urge to rise. He can still recall the pile that Stiles had managed to twist them into by morning – sheets made into ropes, pillows discarded, comforter somehow both beneath and on top of them.

Derek leans against the counter. One of the better benefits of Sheriff Stilinski’s altruistic sense to care for abandoned young men was the fact that Derek had access to Stiles’s room whenever he wanted. Well, access that didn’t require him to commit breaking and entering.

Though there had been plenty of that already.

Pace uneven on the stairs, Stiles arrives at the kitchen trying to act nonchalant instead of totally debauched. Derek sees it though. He sees the slow steps as soreness and not sleep. He sees Stiles’s hand rubbing at his neck as the tracing of the bite marks left just beneath the collar and not a morning stretch. He sees the quick inhale of breath as immediate arousal and not the yawn that Stiles turns it into.

Maybe to a human, Stiles can pass.

A blind human.

A blind and deaf human.

Sheriff Stilinski seemed to have devised his own story regarding Stiles’s behavior around Derek. Terror. Reserve. Typical Stiles. Whatever it is, Derek would like it to stay that way, so that his trips from the guest bedroom to Stiles’s door would continue to go unnoticed. Or at least unmentioned.

Stiles goes straight for Derek and the cereal. Derek slides out of the way and slowly takes a seat at the table.  
The hem of Stiles’s shirt rises above his sweats, revealing the small of his back. The marks Derek placed there are still merely red welts. They’ll be bruises soon – he only made them a few hours ago. 

Derek catches his lip between his teeth and takes a deep breath in through his nose. Stiles still smells like them both – like sweat and sex and come and Derek, even though they’d cleaned themselves off last night. 

Several times in fact.

“Seriously, man?” Stiles looks disappointingly at his bowl. “You didn't just finish off the cereal? You had to leave me the crumbs and flake powder crap?”

Derek raises a single eyebrow.

Sheriff Stilinski answers, “I think Derek was being polite enough to leave you some breakfast since we don’t seem to have anything else in the house. That might just be because one of us forgot to go shopping on Thursday like he promised.”

“Sure, I got tricked out of a breakfast and it’s all my fault.” Stiles flops into the chair. Milk from his “crumbs and flake powder crap” slops across the table.

The Sheriff rips off a few sheets of paper towns and throws them on the milk. The dispenser lives on this table for a reason.

“No one likes the end of the cereal box. It’s where all of the broken bits fall and it doesn’t even taste like the same cereal at the end of it,” Stiles continues.

Derek nudges his foot into Stiles’s and it interrupts the constant flow of Stiles’s mouth for a brief moment. Derek slides his foot up Stiles’s leg; goose bumps ripple.

Stiles coughs. “I mean what other breakfast food are you supposed to eat at the end of its life that has become so unlike itself that it doesn't event taste the same? You don’t shake out the toaster and eat that.”

“I wouldn't put it past you,” the Sheriff says.

Derek moves his foot higher still, sliding the leg of Stiles’s sweats over his knee. He feels the shudder before Stiles turns it into a stretch.

Stiles’s voice is unmistakably higher. “You aren't supposed to eat the egg shells left over. No one’s ever felt compelled to finish off the last of the powdered pancake mix. I mean come on – just ‘cause it’s polite to leave some for someone else doesn't mean that you have to. It’s like leaving the barest trace of milk in the jug because you don’t want to go buy more and you’re gonna leave it up to the next guy.”

Derek lets his spoon fall into his bowl with a clang. He grabs the rim of Stiles’s cereal and drags it over towards him with one hand and shoves his mostly eaten cereal at Stiles with the other. Derek also manages to work his foot into Stiles’s lap.

Jaw slack, Stiles stares without blinking at the bowl. Derek reaches in again, kneading Stiles's thigh. He feels Stiles’s heart rate triple. He grabs the spoon.

It takes Stiles a second, but he says, “So now you’re gonna give me soggy cereal instead? And a dirty spoon to top it off? I hardly think that’s sanitary.”

The Sheriff translates: “That means ‘thank you.’”

Derek takes a big bite. It tastes nothing like the Raisin Bran knock off he was just eating. It tastes like cardboard. And Stiles. It tastes like Stiles.

The right side of Stiles’s mouth twitches into a half-smile. Derek feels his face break in response. Derek scrunches his toes in circles and Stiles smiles full on.

They’re going go-carting later.

Maybe they can even sneak a quick one in before they leave.


End file.
